Why Call Them Back from Heaven

14

The dinner tapers flickered, almost burned out, and the scent of roses filled the dingy room—although, in the candlelight, the room was not so dingy. And both of them, the tapers and the roses, had spelled extravagance, but Frost found that he could not regret the money they had cost. It was the first time in years that he had not eaten alone and he could not remember any evening as pleasant as this one had turned out to be.

Ann.Harrison had not again referred to the Chapman matter, but there had been much to talk about—the European art exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art (they both, it turned out, had been to see it, on one of the free days); the new historical novel that everyone was talking about, a romance of the early days of space flight; the unreasonable attitude of the traffic cops; the wisdom of investing in other commodities than Forever stock—and themselves.

Ann had been born and reared in Manhattan, she told him, had completed her law course at Columbia, had spent one vacation in France and another in Japan, but now no longer took vacations, for it was a waste of time and money, and aside from this, her law practice now took all her time—too much work for one person, not enough for two.

And he, in turn, had told her about the vacations he spent as a boy, on his grandfather's farm in Wisconsin, no longer a farm, of course, for there were no farms, but a sort of family summer place.

"Although," he said, "it isn't even a summer place now. The family doesn't own it. At the time of my grand-

— parents' death it was sold to one of the big land companies and the proceeds turned into Forever stock. I went out to Chicago several years ago on business and took a day off and drove up to the place. It's way out west, on the bluffs above a little town named Bridgeport. The buildings still were standing, but there was no one there, of course, and the place is beginning to look shabby and rundown."

"It seems a shame," said Anne, "that there aren't any farms. All that land going back to wilderness. You'd think that the government would encourage farming. It would supply a lot of people with employment." He shook his head. "I regret it, too. There was something solid about a farm. And a nation without farms seems a sort of shaky setup. But there really was no reason to keep them going and there is all sort of reason to tool up the converter plants to full capacity. We'll need those plants and in operating order, when revivals start. So far as employment is concerned…"

"Yes, I know," she said. "All the facilities to be built. Block after block of apartments and each one standing empty. Not only here, but in all the world. When I was in Japan they were building acres of them."

"We'll need them all," he told her. "Almost a hundred billion frozen and a present population not much less than half of that."

"Where are we going to put them all?" she asked, "I know that…"

"Bigger buildings, if necessary. Forever Center is a bit better than a mile in height. It was built as a model, really, to see if a building that large could be built and stand. And it seems to be all right. There was a little settling to start with, but nothing too alarming. You can't build that high everywhere, of course. It depends on the basement rock. But the engineers now are saying that if you go deep enough…"

"You mean living underground?"

"Well, yes, both under and above. Go deep enough to find good underpinning, then build up from there, as high as you can build. That way, you can take care of, say, several million people in a single building. What would be the equivalent of a small city in a single structure."

"But there is a limit."

"Oh, certainly," he agreed. "There will come a time, some centuries from now, even with the best that we can do, when there'll no longer be any room."

"And then we migrate into time?"

"Well, yes," he said, "we hope so."

"You haven't got it yet?"

"Not yet," he said, "but close."

"And immortality?"

"Ten years," he said. "Twenty maybe. Unless we hit a snag."

"Dan," she said, "was it smart, the way we did it— to keep all those people frozen until we could hand them immortality? We know what to do with cancer, how to repair the weakened heart, how to handle old age. We could have started revivals almost a hundred years ago, but we just keep on, stacking up the bodies. We said what difference does it make if they sleep a little longer. They will never know. So let us make it worth their while, let's give them a surprise, those old ones, when they wake up. Let's give them life eternal."

He laughed. "I don't know. You can't get me to argue that one. Too many words already have been wasted on it. Personally, I don't see what difference it could make."

"But with all those billions, think of all the time that it will take. Each one of them must be processed…"

"I know, but there are corps of technicians, thousands of them, ready to start work the moment that the word is given. And there are other corps of counselors standing by."

"But it will take time."

"Yes," he said. "It will take a lot of time. It would have been simpler, the way it first was planned. But then along came this social security business. I know

it was the only fair way, for you couldn't put a pric «on extended life. But it makes the chore of revival so much harder and I hate to think of the economic chaos." "It'll be worked out," she said. "It has to be. As you say, it is only fair. You can't have immortality onlv for those who can afford to pay for it."

"But think of India," he said. "Think of Africa and China. People who even now can't earn a decent living, kept from starving by world relief programs. Not a dim, to lay away. Not a cent invested. They'll be revived into a world that, for them, will be no better than this life they know right now. They still will face starvation; they still will stand in line for food handouts. All the social security program gives them is their shot at immortality. It gives them nothing more."

"It's better than death," she said. "It's better than an end to everything."

"I suppose it is," he said.

She glanced at her watch. "I'm sorry," she said, "but it is time to go. It's way past time, in fact. I don't know when I've enjoyed an evening quite so much." "I wish you'd stay a little longer." She shook her head and rose from the table. "I never intended to stay at all. But I am glad I did. I'm glad it worked out the way it did."

"Some other time, perhaps," he suggested. "I could phone you."

"That would be nice of you." "I'll see you home." "I have my car downstairs." "Ann, there's one thing more." Half turned toward the door, she hesitated. "I've been thinking," he said. "You're an attorney. I may have need of one. Would you represent me?"

She turned to face him, half puzzled, half laughing.

"What earthly need would you have of an attorney?"

"I don't know," he said. "I may not really need one.

But I think I have a certain paper. I have a bunch of papers. I'm almost certain it's among them. But I have a feeling it might be better if I didn't look, if I didn't know"

"Dan," she asked, "what in the world are you trying to say?" "I'm not quite sure. You see, I have this paper, or I think I have it."

"Well, what's so great about it? What kind of paper is it?"

"I don't know what kind of paper. Just a note, a memo. But I shouldn't have it. It doesn't belong to me,"

"Get rid of it," she told him. "Burn it. There's no need…"

"No!" he protested. "No, 1 can't do that. It might be important."

"Certainly you must know what is written on it. You must know.."

He shook his head. "I looked at it when it first fell into my hands, but I didn't understand it then. And now I've forgotten what was written on it. At first it didn't seem important…"

"But now it does," she said.

He nodded. "Maybe. I don't know."

"And you don't want to know."

"I guess that's it," he said.

She crinkled up her face at him, half humorously, half seriously. "I can't see how I fit into this."

"I thought that if I took all the papers, the bundle that I spoke of, and put them in an envelope and gave the envelope to you, ,"

"As your attorney?"

He nodded miserably.

She hesitated. "Would I know more about that particular piece of paper? Would you tell me more?"

"I don't think I should," he said. "I wouldn't want to implicate you. I have the papers in my pocket. I was looking for this certain paper—to be sure I had it. I found a bunch of papers I'd taken out of my other suit when you arrived. So I stuffed the papers in my pocket…"

"You were afraid someone was coming to take the paper from you."

"Yes. Something like that. I don't know what I thought, But now I realize that perhaps it would be better if I didn't know what was in the paper or even where it was."

"I'm not too sure," she said, "of either the ethics or legality."

"I understand," he said. "It was a bad idea. Let's forget about it."

"Dan," she said.

"Yes."

"I asked you a favor."

"And I couldn't do it."

"You will when you can."

"Don't count on me. The chances are…"

"You're in trouble, Dan."

"Not yet. I suppose I could be. You used poor judgment. You came to the one man the least likely to be of help to you."

"I don't think so," she said. "I'll gamble on you. Now, let's get that envelope, ,"